


Stóð Svá Vel til Hǫggsins

by Kahvi



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: Thor kills Thanos, and it makes no difference. He grieves himself and his brother, and the end of the world, for five long years.
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Kudos: 26





	Stóð Svá Vel til Hǫggsins

_It is said that the warrior Torgeir Håvardsson, when riding past a shepherd who was bending down and supporting himself on his staff, cut the man's head off with his ax. When asked why he did this, Torgeir replied that the man "was so well placed for chopping."_

The shed smells like dry grass and piss mixed with smoke and sickly-sweet stew, and yet they talk. Thor keeps his head down, neck wet with the weight of it. There are only so many words, and none that can undo what has been done. What _he_ did not do. Stormbringer thrums in his hands, or his hands thrum with it; it is all one. It is him; distilled of his essence. _Whoever wields this hammer, be they worthy..._ But it is not a hammer. Is it _Thor_? It feels like him, now, lengthening his arms and following so smoothly as he swings, the blade singing to the flesh it reaps.

More words. Anger. Confusion. The rabbit grits its teeth at him. "I went for the head," Thor tells them, and it is all. It is nothing, and he walks out into it, breathing it in and swallowing it up.

* * *

The nothing is sharp and grey and windy, like the shores of home. Thor stands at the water's edge, hearing words and nodding, gesturing at the shapes of his people. They have lost so many, and then half of that again in turn, and for most of them it is all one. They call him king, and yes, these are familiar cliffs, craggy and deep. If he looks out to the horizon, Thor can see it in the break between sea and sky; the glittering sunlight cresting the waves.

There are only so many houses he can build before he falls into one, as though by accident. Korg makes sure there is a bed, a couch, food and a place to store it where it does not perish. Thor accepts it like the coming and going of the light, the flickering of the drawn curtains. Korg brings women too, eventually, laughing with them in the late hours of the neverending spring day, and then, drawing into summer, men. Thor stays in his bed, the kitchen, faceless, quiet rooms, and Korg, in well-intentioned confusion, eventually brings in rapid succession, a goat, a potted plant, a seagull and finally, a little shyly, a formation of tiny rocks. He grins when Thor laughs, and chatters on as they sit together, sharing the dregs of a keg of mead.

* * *

It is winter when he notices his drinking. It is always there, in his hand or by it, balanced on his shoulders in great casks from the village proper. It seems to help. Some days, he can almost feel himself thinking, think that he is feeling; some days he can walk outside and feel the cold on his naked skin, watching his hands go blue and frosted in the lantern-glow. Korg pulls him inside, but Thor cannot die, not from this, not in a way that has meaning. Not now. He draws runes on his arms and fingers, the blood freezing in little pearly drops before it hits the ground. There may be a way, he thinks, if he can remember how it goes, how the patterns shift under your stare even as you write them. If he can remember what he looked like.

Someone sings him to sleep. An old song without words, hummed like seiðr spun into his soul, which is why it is a dream. Thor hums when he wakes, and the sweetness is too much. Stormbringer comes when he summons it, and reunited with himself Thor crosses the snowy fields to stand by the cliffside, watching the fjord fade out in the distance. The weight has shifted; him or the axe. He _is_ the axe. How did it go? _Whosoever..._ His father sealed his powers in the hammer... no, not quite. Sealed away his _access_ to it, until he was strong enough to let it flow freely. Mjølner was a focus. This, the living wood and metal in his hand, this is _born_ of him, and they are linked. Where it fails, he fails. Thor holds it up, and it sings to him, but the song is different, even as the clouds gather. 

The axe chops wood as well as anything, and it is a thing to do. Thor sweats in the cold spring air, half a year's supply for himself and the next two houses over already in a pile beside him; a rising mountain. There are so many trees. They will not run out. Thor settles into the rhythm, the shifting of his muscles, the rush of air past his ears as he moves. It makes a sound like the voice in his head, louder now than ever. No, not voice, a feeling. An aching _lack_. A certainty, like frosted skin and blood on snow. It sings still, in the evenings, so Thor keeps drinking, but the wood, the wind, the on and on and on - that works, too. For a time.

* * *

He knows he is changing, inside and out. The drink they brew here is not enough to dull him; his Aesir body burning off what little blessed dullness it brings his mind in half a heartbeat, and so he must drink more. What he wouldn't give for the wine cellars of his father, or the golden mead of the halls of his slaughtered home, or the crystal liquors of Sakaar, potent enough to knock out his greatest warrior after a bottle or two. In time, his body softening, the Aesir nothing if not adaptive, adjusting to the piss-weak swill, it is _almost_ enough, if he keeps it at a constant.

A barrel lasts a day or two. The clear, sharp karsk, pure ethanol and coffee, from the human locals lasts a little longer. When he hears of kids getting it wrong, risking death and blindness from a botched brewing, he buys all their stock and the stills to boot. They see his eyes, and know not to start up again, at least not in this village. The methanol works better, while it lasts; what would blind a Midgardian man or woman shaving, for a moment, the jagged edges off his senses. When the time comes to brew his own, he gives up after a week or two. As with everything, getting it wrong is as much of a struggle as getting it right.

* * *

Summer is the worst. He cannot get away from the sun, not even at night, not even indoors with the curtains drawn. Light is everywhere, burning him through closed lids, and the dark glasses Korg gets him from Tønsberg. Neverending days of memories and sharp metal and dead faces to drown and drown until he can't walk, until the nothing inside seeps out through halting breaths and strangles him to sleep.

He hides the ax. It is just an axe, as he is just a man.

The last thing he wants is for someone to find him, and the only thing he wants is for someone to find him. His friends. The ones he's lost, not in the sense of so many others, but in the sense that days and weeks and months are lost to the nothing. Thor orders pizza. Sits with Korg and Miek and moves when he has to, which is rarely. He knows there is an outside - the sunlight again, off and on, ruthlessly - but avoids it. Pizza is delivered. Anything, it turns out, can be delivered, if you know the right things to say to the computers and the phones. Thor does not, but Korg is helpful, learning not to ask too much when Thor is very quiet. Sometimes he has to eat, and food is food is food. He doesn't like to wear clothes, but there is a nagging part of his mind, still, that insists he do.

Daylight is sharp when they come, one of the endless days. Thor feels something recoil inside, even as he embraces and rambles on, offering food, drink... Drink and... There is nothing else. What does he have to offer. And at once he is acutely aware of himself, wanting to hide, but having nowhere to go, and then, then... they say the name.

He is white-hot flame. He is the clouds forming above them, the very air that they breathe, crisp and clear. "We do not say that name-" but they used to, and they stopped, and whose fault was that? Thor already knows he is leaving, but the words flow as they must.

I will take care of you, they say. One of them. Does it matter? Others have tried, there is nothing to take, and caring does not help. Thor grunts, and thinks about beer. Which is tangible.

* * *

All these people make him twitchy. Thor has to talk and move and say things, which is not the same as merely talking. All of this, he does, shaking hands and nodding when expected. His head hurts. He drinks and eats, because there is food and drink. So many words. They flow over him like wine from a horn, some sticking, some going where they shouldn't. He falls asleep behind his glasses, listening. They don't seem to know the world has ended. They want to know about before, and yes, Thor can talk about before. About Jane and love and Odin and... the names come; the Aether, the Svartalfr, another end of the world, another death. This is important, these are words to honor the dead, more worth than the endless others, and Thor roars against the Iron Man holding him back, pushes against him, stays, says it all... and it is less than nothing.

He is weak.

They send him to a room with muted walls and a too-large bed, and he flops down on it, grunting. He should sleep. He's forgotten how. The covers fall over him, a pillow is fluffed, and he worries into a dream, startling awake four hours later.

The room is bright. He has forgotten to turn off the light.

_The sun will shine, brother._

Demons. In his mind, his heart. Thor fumbles for a switch, a button, something. Eventually, the lights go out, and the bed creaks beside him.

* * *

He wakes too early. The room is warm and the bedclothes stick to him, and something is wrong, something is happening... The feeling, so long forgotten sneaks up on Thor, leaves him breathless and clawing at the mattress with his free hand, the one not wrapped around himself. His cock is slick with itself, he must have started in his sleep, if such a thing could happen. He is close, hand moving of its own mind and power, and Thor thinks only of green meadows and grass, and rain, and laughter. 

He makes a mess of the bed. One more embarrassment to the pile; it means nothing. As he falls into dazed slumber, wiping himself on his own thigh, the tension in his shoulders let go. He hears a sigh that is probably his own. 

* * *

For the most part, they leave him alone. Hulk who is Bruce talks to him, when he is not working, mostly about nothing at all. It... does not help, but it fills the time his brain would otherwise have to spare for eating itself. Nat talks to him sometimes. Asks non-questions so that he can provide the answer if he wants; _I hear it's beautiful in New Asgard, your people are settling in nicely_ , and even, eventually, _I am so sorry for your loss._ Thor nods. Drinks. Stays at the edges of things.

Stark comes to him one day, a familiar blue bottle under his arm. No, crystal, filled with blue. "Here." He puts it down on the little table that would have doubled as a desk, if Thor had needed a desk. "Whatever you've done to your body to make it able to process our piss-weak shit, it can't be doing you any favors." He pats the bottle. "This should get you where you need to be with just a glass or two. I can knock up a few barrels of this whenever you need, just let me know."

Thor looks at him, confused. He takes the ornate glass Stark has also brought, and holds it up to the lamp-light. It almost looks Sakaarian. _If you were here, I'd..._ He sets it down before he breaks it. Looks up at Stark again, trying to find the angle in his scarred face.

"Don't give me that look. I'm just here to help you do what you need to do."

Thor searches the corners of his mouth, the lines under his eyes. He meets Stark's eyes. Stark smiles for a fraction of a second, nods, then smiles again, and goes.

* * *

He drinks too much of Stark's little blue helper the night before, passing out and waking in the early hours of the morning, still too late to drink himself back up again. He is coming down, holding on to himself with fists and teeth as they travel through the contraption, but when the suit comes off, so does his grip. He knows where they are, this cool, dark maze; knows the path ahead and it takes the rabbit kicking at his shin to get him moving.

He knows where they are. The only light ahead is cold, but golden. Empty. White. He can't go in there. His feet move anyway.

The rabbit kicks him again and Thor stumbles inside. _Don't look. It is not your truth, your past, your concern. Do not turn your head._ Thor turns his head. What he sees is double, now; the wanted and the true. First, when he was young and too foolish to know people could be more than one thing, it was the first. Then, only the other. And now? There are two of his brother, intermingling. The calm, styled, fine-robed youth, hair immaculate as ever. And, just below, a red-eyed, shaking figure, each tossing an object in the air. Catching it. Throwing. Catching again. Thor's insides kick and scream, telling him to run, but it is Loki.

"Come _on_ ," the rabbit hisses. How is it to know? Its own pain is deep and dark and never spoken, hidden, to ease the pain. Possibly, it is trying to help. Loki's face is turning. Thor starts. Runs.

 _Oh, little rabbit._ There is nothing to be hidden. It is too big to fit in his immortal soul.

* * *

Mother is too much to remember. It happens quickly, the pain too, and then...

There is...

They lost another. So few now (like his people), and even fewer here; among the lost and searching. Thor doesn't know the grief of her, but the taste is familiar. He was always a ghost among them, but now he feels it; sees it in the way they look just past his eyes. He screams, out in the woods, where no one cares to listen, collapsing back against a tree and Stark is there. Watching, head askew.

"You hanging in there, big guy?"

Thor shudders. Brushes the bark off his sweater and stalks past, as he hears a quiet, "wish I could do that."

* * *

"There is a story," he tells the rabbit, as they sit in starlight on the roof that night, "about a man."

"Yeah? No kidding." The bottle passes between them in silence, until the rabbit says. "Sorry," his ears folding back. "Keep going."

"Torgeir Håvardsson. That was his name, you see. He... he was important. Warrior. People feared him." The rabbit nods. Thor drinks again, looking up. "And he had an axe." Thor narrows his eyes. "I'm fairly sure that's the important bit. The axe."

"Usually is."

"No, but, see; he _used it_. Chopped a man's head off. And when they asked him why, you know, why just chop a man's head off, d'you know what he said?"

The night air waits as politely as the rabbit, until one or both of them says "no?"

"No." Thor wipes his mouth, then his eyes. "I don't remember either."

* * *

The burn of flesh is acrid in the air, but not death. That is enough, and it needs to be and is, but Thor feels the same. 

On the floor, Bruce is writhing; he will heal, with the scars to prove it. Did it help? Beyond saving the world, beyond the myriad lives saved, does _he_ feel the same? Thor doesn't blame Stark; Mjølner had come to him out of familiar feeling. There is no test of his mettle, his worth; his father was wrong. The hammer comes to those in need, who know themselves. Lifting a hammer is not wearing a glove. _It isn't_ , he thinks, it isn't. Stark does his best with what remains of Bruce's arm, and Thor watches closely. Wills the grunts and pain and blackened skin to himself, and envies. The green monster, Jane called it. 

And the the world explodes again. 

* * *

_There you are._

The voice is all around and inside him all at once. It is green grass and sunshine across the jagged stone, the endless would-be battlefield flashing to bright summer days and ice and flame, then back again. It fills Thor like sweet mead and cold water, as he listens, inward, for perhaps the first time. 

_There you are, brother. Look at the state of you._

Lost, lost, lost, Thor thinks, reaching out, collapsing, but Loki holds him up. Straightens his spine. Soothes his straining muscles. Were you always there, he asks. 

_Of course, idiot. Now, hold still. Let me..._

Seiðr caresses him, tendrils made from soft strands of reality gently braid his beard, comb the knots out of his hair and cleans it. Wraps around his body with such sweet care, freshening his skin, turning his worn, warm clothes to cold, strong armor. 

_How handsome you look. A true berserker._

Adornments spring up; latches, little dragon's heads and ornate patterns. Thor can feel them; senses Loki's own designs in the sigils. His brother's mark on his second skin. 

_Now summon your trinkets. You are power; let them guide it. Make us proud._

And the ALL is in him and about him and fills him up. Thor gasps. Blinks. Stay, he thinks. Will you stay with me? 

And Loki laughs. _You are my house, Thor. I will haunt you._

They charge. 


End file.
